Part 37 (1/2)

”I did not kill him after all,” said G.o.ddard, turning himself a little as though to be more at his ease.

”No,” answered John. ”He is not hurt at all. Can you tell me who you are?” For his life, he could not help asking the question. It seemed so easy to find out who the fellow was, now that he could speak intelligibly. But G.o.ddard's face contracted suddenly, in a hideous smile.

”Don't you wish you knew?” he said roughly. ”But I know you, my boy, I know you--ha! ha! There's no getting away from you, my boy, is there?”

”Who am I?” asked John in astonishment.

”You are the hangman,” said G.o.ddard. ”I know you very well. The hangman is always so well dressed. I say, old chap, turn us off quick, you know--no fumbling about the bolt. Look here--I like your face,” he lowered his voice--”there are nearly sixty pounds in my right-hand trouser pocket--there are--Mary--ah--gave--M--a--”

Again his eyes fixed themselves and the moaning began and continued. John was horror-struck and stood for a moment gazing at his face, over which the deep flush had spread once more, seeming to obliterate all appearance of intelligence. Then the young man put his hand beneath G.o.ddard's head and gently replaced him in his former position, smoothing the pillows, and giving him a little brandy. He debated whether or not he should call the squire from his rest to tell him what had happened, but seeing that G.o.ddard had now returned to his former state, he supposed such moments of clear speech were to be expected from time to time. He sat down again, and waited; then after a time he went to the window and looked anxiously for the dawn. It seemed an intolerably long night.

But the day came at last and shed a ghastly grey tinge upon the sick-room, revealing as it were the outlines of all that was bad to look at, which the warm yellow candle-light had softened with a kindlier touch. John accidentally looked at himself in the mirror as he pa.s.sed and was startled at his own pale face; but the convict, labouring in the ravings of his fever, seemed unconscious of the dawning day; he was not yet exhausted and his harsh voice never ceased its jarring gibber. John wondered whether he should ever spend such a night again, and shuddered at the recollection of each moment.

The daylight waked the squire from his slumbers, however, and before the sun was up he came out of the dressing-room, looking almost as fresh as though nothing had happened to him in the night. Accustomed for years to rise at all hours, in all weathers, unimpressionable, calm and strong, he seemed superior to the course of events.

”Well, Mr. Short, you allowed me a long nap. You must be quite worn out, I should think. How is the patient?”

John told what had occurred.

”Took you for the hangman, did he?” said the squire. ”I wonder why--but you say he asked after me very sensibly?”

”Quite so. It was when I asked him his own name, that he began raving again,” answered John innocently.

”What made you ask him that?” asked Mr. Juxon, who did not seem pleased.

”Curiosity,” was John's laconic answer.

”Yes--but I fancy it frightened him. If I were you I would not do it again, if he has a lucid moment. I imagine it was fright that made him delirious in the first instance.”

”All right,” quoth John. ”I won't.” But he made his own deductions. The squire evidently knew who he was, and did not want John to know, for some unexplained reason. The young man wondered what the reason could be; the mere name of the wretched man was not likely to convey any idea to his mind, for it was highly improbable that he had ever met him before his conviction. So John departed to his own room and refreshed himself with a tub, while the squire kept watch by daylight.

It was not yet eight o'clock when Holmes brought a note from the vicar, which Mr. Juxon tore open and read with anxious interest.

”MY DEAR MR. JUXON--I received your note late last night, but I judged it better to answer this morning, not wis.h.i.+ng to excite suspicion by sending to you at so late an hour. The intelligence is indeed alarming and you will, I daresay, understand me, when I tell you that I found it necessary to communicate it to Mrs. Ambrose--”

The squire could not refrain from smiling at the vicar's way of putting the point; but he read quickly on.

”She however--and I confess my surprise and gratification--desires to accompany me to the Hall this morning, volunteering to take all possible care of the unfortunate man. As she has had much experience in visiting the sick, I fancy that she will render us very valuable a.s.sistance in saving his life. Pray let me know if the plan has your approval, as it may be dangerous to lose time.--Yours sincerely,

”AUGUSTIN AMBROSE.”

Mr. Juxon was delighted to find that the difficult task of putting Mrs.

Ambrose in possession of the facts of the case had been accomplished in the ordinary, the very ordinary, course of events by her own determination to find out what was to be known. In an hour she might be at G.o.ddard's bedside, and Mrs. G.o.ddard would be free to see her husband.

He despatched a note at once and redoubled his attentions to the sick man whose condition, however, showed no signs of changing.

CHAPTER XXII.

Mrs. Ambrose kept her word and arrived with the vicar before nine o'clock, protesting her determination to take care of poor G.o.ddard, so long as he needed any care. Mr. Juxon warned her that John did not know who the man was, and entreated her to be careful of her speech when John was present. There was no reason why John should ever know anything more about it, he said; three could keep a secret, but no one knew whether four could be as discreet.